The Golden Flask (52 page)

The redcoat guard, standing at the top of the path from the beach, endeavored to keep his eyes off the
strange markings on the man's face and chest. None
theless, his contempt for the visitor was undisguised.

"You're a white man?"

"I am an Oneida warrior. My Indian name is
Gawasowaneh;
in your tongue, it means Big Snowsnake. Do you wish my entire history, or will you do your duty and take me to your master?"

"Mr. Bauer is not here."

"I will wait, then," said Egans.

"You'll be waiting till Judgment Day. He's dead. Killed in a duel. Brother came back this morning."

"Take me to the brother, then," said Egans.

The English sentry had heard rumors of changelings
and race traitors but had never seen one, much less found one in the employ of his government. Still, all
manner of arrangements were made during wartime.
When he searched Egans he found him unarmed. His
papers were in order. And so the private turned him over to his corporal, standing on the shallow step before the front door, and retreated to his post — only to
find another guard in his place. As he protested the
unexpected relief, he was knocked over the head from
behind.

Egans, meanwhile, repeated his previous interview
with the private for the corporal, with roughly the same
stoic expression. Contrary to van Clynne's concerns,
Egans had no difficulty pretending to be something he
was not. The white Oneida soon found himself padding
softly behind the corporal as he was shown inside to the parlor.

"I will attempt to find Lord William for you," said the corporal. Like the rest of his men, he came from
the English Highlands, but his accent had been sup
pressed by years of contact with his betters. He had also learned a great deal more manners than his pri
vates. "I must say that he is deeply grieved today. Your
audience may be strained."

"I am only here on orders," replied Egans. "As soon
as they are fulfilled, I will be happy to leave."

"Aye, I reckoned that." The corporal gave him a crooked half-smile and turned on his heel to find Bauer's lone servant, George.

Egans stood as erect as a statue in the well-ap
pointed room. No rag rugs covered these wide floor
boards; Persian and Flemish craftsmen had slaved for
many years so Clayton Bauer's guests could walk from
one room to the next without getting splinters in their
feet. At Egans's side stood a massive clock, taller and
wider than he, and filled with a mechanism as finely
and precisely tuned as the Oneida's own heart. Its deep
click filled his ears.

The reader should not think that the past few days
hadn't taken their toll on the adopted Indian's facul
ties. The physical difficulties, to one so inured to a hard
life of fighting, were of little concern. Egans had endured hand-to-hand warfare with bitter rivals; that was a considerably greater trial, in his opinion, than any fight with whites, no matter how extended. But the revelations of his parentage, and more importantly, the identity of his adopted father's killer, had struck the core of his being. His hate had been so strongly held that it guided his most important decisions since coming of age. It was one thing to shift alliances — Egans had been taught the ways of justice and honor, and knew firmly what he must do — but it was another thing to face the grave error his life had been victim to. It was a shortcoming he was responsible for; he must somehow find a way not simply to amend it but to expiate its consequences. Many men had been wrongly sent to their deaths because of his mistake.

Jake need not have worried about his new loyalty. Rather greater was the possibility that Egans might suddenly do something very rash because of it. His calm, stoic exterior, hardened by his years with his Iroquois family, hid the raging emotions of a volatile white child, not yet tamed by civilization's conventions. Sooner or later, the painted skin would fail to contain the tormented soul bubbling below.

"Who are you, sir, and why do you come to my brother's house?" said Lord William Buckmaster as he entered the room.

"I am called Egans, a messenger for General Burgoyne. The general bade me directly to pay my respects, before I attended General Clinton. I have come to fulfill my duty."

He addressed Lord William in a flat voice, and seemed to take no notice of the man's finery, the well-arranged powdered wig and black silk suit. Lord William had daubed his cheeks with rouge, but the lines of his grief were obvious enough as Egans held his eyes.

Buckmaster dismissed the corporal, telling him to go and check on his men. When he was gone, Lord William addressed Egans with a level voice, endeavoring to take no notice of his odd appearance. He assumed
such things were commonplace in this strange and vio
lent land.

"My brother-in-law is dead," said Buckmaster. "I am
waiting now on the arrival of his body."

Egans nodded.

"Would you care for a drink?"

"No."

Egans waited silently as Lord William called for George to bring him a strong whiskey.

"Sir," said the servant, "I believe that some addi
ional soldiers are arriving outside. And I have heard
noises in the north wing — "

"Just get me the damn whiskey. Now!"

The outburst represented Lord William's surrender. He sank into the blue velvet chair behind him, lucky that it was there to break his fall.

Egans stood motionless, observing, feeling only con
tempt for the weakling before him.

* * *

T
he same spell that had arrested Jake stopped Lady
Patricia as well. Jake broke it first, moving quietly and
quickly behind her to shut the door. Then he touched
her shoulder with his left hand — his right still held his
knife — not knowing whether she would cry out in alarm or fall into his arms.

She did neither, turning instead. A thousand emotions mixed in her face.

"You killed my brother."

There was a moment that seemed a century then, as if Jake might be somehow able to commit her soul to
his memory, as if in the silence some essential part of
each might mix. For van Clynne had judged his friend
well; Jake had become enamored of the woman whose
lips he first kissed for convenience only. Whether for
her nobility in suffering, her strong yet charitable way,
or the inviting curve of her body — it was impossible to
say.

As the first moment grew to the next, the spy banished any weakness the attraction would bring. Yet some emotion remained; some regret tempered his strength.

"Your brother is alive." Jake took her hand as she started back in shock. "I am not an agent for Bacon, but Washington."

"Washington?"

He let her slip back to the bed, sitting on the edge and catching her hands to her mouth. He saw her next move before she attempted it, grabbing her mouth quickly as she rose to set the alarm.

"Let me go, you bastard." The words choked out between his fingers, not loud enough for anyone outside the room to hear. "You killed my son. You and your treacherous friends, you lying bastard!"

* * *

Lord William rubbed his face, as if he could pull the shattered shards of his soul back together. He looked up and offered his guest a wan smile of apology.

"Excuse me," he said. "My son disappeared — we have to assume he died — in the war, and now my brother. His wounds were more of the self-inflicted nature. Pride, really."

There was a shout at the front hall, and Lord William jumped to his feet, running to the door — where he found his brother-in-law, groggy but quite obviously alive, hanging on the shoulder of a sailor.

* * *

"If you yell out, your husband inside will die," Jake warned her. He moved his hand down and gripped his arm around her neck, trying not to choke her though keeping her secure. He had the knife in his right hand, but there was as much chance of him using it against her as there was of the sun rising a second time that day. "Your brother will be killed as well, this time for real."

"I don't believe you," she said, yet she made no effort to call out or get away as Jake leaned down to slide the knife into his boot. Her long dressing gown was half buttoned, an inch
of pink skin exposed between her breasts. Jake,
still holding her around the neck, reached to the
nearby table and pulled off the cloth, fashioning it as a
light clasp for her hands.

"I did not kill your son," he said as he tied her hands. "And I did not make the promise to help find him lightly."

"You are a liar and a devil."

"You accepted my kisses readily enough."

"Don't flatter yourself," she said.

"I notice you're not trying to escape."

"I'm not as foolish as you think. You would grab me
in a second, wouldn't you? And slit my throat. Kill me
now, then. Go ahead. Kill me as you have devastated the rest of my family."

A sudden energy flooded into her body. Jake caught
it just in time, clamping his hand over her mouth.

"I'm not going to kill you," he said, a second before
she bit his fingers.

Chapter Forty-four

Wherein, several weapons are produced, as are some slight complications.

D
altoons checked his pocketwatch
warily as he squatted by the stone pillar along the roadway. His men would have deposited Clayton Bauer at the front door and ought to have neutralized the guards by now.

No matter whether in the city or not, operations on
Manhattan were always fraught with danger. Daltoons, by now an experienced veteran of irregular warfare,
habitually felt his palms sweating at some point during
a mission. They had turned to raging torrents now, and
he wiped them on his freshly bleached white breeches,
anxious for his men to arrive and tell him everything was going as planned.

His hope was in vain. Hasty footsteps down the path
and labored breathing announced a messenger.

"One of the sons of bitches got away," said the man.
"He ran from the back when we secured the horses at the barn. You said not to shoot."

"Shitten hell." Daltoons turned his eyes back to the
road. There was a redcoat encampment less than a quarter mile away.

"Pull everybody from around the building. March up
to the crossroads with me," said the young lieutenant,
loosening the worse curses in his arsenal as he began trotting up the hill, guns ready. "Shitten damn hell in a
British dandy's rogering hatbox."